


wood

by leedeeloo



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leedeeloo/pseuds/leedeeloo
Summary: Meouch has a hobby.





	wood

**Author's Note:**

> it just feels right to post this one on its own? its a prompt from a random word generator.

All of Sung’s nagging had finally got to him. Kind of. A little bit. He’d never admit it, though.

One day his hand twitched towards his pack of cigarettes, and when he picked it up he felt one lonely smoke rolling around inside. And he looked at it. Thought. Stuffed the box in his shirt pocket and marched out into the backyard, to the garden shed that Havve claimed, peering inside. He kept a pile of kindling in there for some reason, as if he were planning for some kind of doomsday.

Meouch swiped a piece; about as long as his hand, half as thick as the width as his palm, pretty even all the way around.

He had to go back in the house, rummage through drawers before finally landing on the perfect thing in the catch-all junk drawer in the kitchen, before coming back out, settling in a creaky fold out patio chair. Sharp old knife no one would be looking for, and a good piece of wood in hand, Meouch started whittling.

He was slow and shaky; he’d learned how to do this when he was a kid, where or who exactly from forgotten. He only really knew the one sculpture, but it was interesting enough and killed enough time for him over his life that it didn’t really matter.

After about fifteen minutes, he hadn’t really made much progress, but he was done. For now. He stood, dusted the shavings off his pants with one hand, and headed back inside. He put his smokes in their usual place, next to the basket of keys and change on the stand by the front door, and set his project right next to them.

The unplanned plan worked most times; he’d get his usual craving, go to grab a smoke, see the knife and the wood slowly taking shape, and headed out for a whittling break instead. His next pack lasted nearly twice as long, a spate of cold and rainy weather convincing him to sit under the puny awning over the front door, the steady sound of slices an even beat to sporadic raindrops.

When there was finally a sliding lump of wood contained in a cage, the others started to notice. Not that he saw; it would be moved from when he set it down, not placed just so as he usually did, obviously played with. No one seemed to see him working on it, either, but someone kept sweeping the shavings off the sidewalk.

Finishing it was bittersweet. Finally, after months, he had it. A perfect sphere in a long cage, just big enough for the sphere to roll from one end to the other, frustratingly sanded to be smooth. But he was done, no more progress to be made in his moments of introspection.  


End file.
